


Chestnost

by OrchidScript



Category: The Queen's Gambit (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, OT3, Threesome, Throuple, Triad relationship, Vacation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 01:40:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29768748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrchidScript/pseuds/OrchidScript
Summary: Marya delighted in his panting breathes, his blue eyes turning liquid under her touch, the deepening flush in his cheeks. She spared a glance at Beth, the young woman now seated between her husband’s legs. The young woman’s hand worked him through the fabric of his trousers, her eyes glittering merrily.“Look how pink he’s turned,” Beth purred, reaching for his belt.“Isn’t it lovely?” Marya traced a fingernail down the curve of Vasily’s cheek, pressing sharply into his lower lip.“Mhmm, like strawberries and cream.”
Relationships: Beth Harmon/Mrs. Borgova, Vasily Borgov/Beth Harmon, Vasily Borgov/Mrs. Borgova, Vasily Borgov/Vasily Borgov's Wife
Comments: 13
Kudos: 32





	1. Kaliningrad, 1956

**Author's Note:**

> Chestnost (noun) - Honesty  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> Back by (somewhat) popular demand: the Ot3, now with more trust-building + vacation vibes.
> 
> This is a 2 part story. The first being a scene with just the Borgovs as a young couple; the second being a later, clandestine trip with Beth in tow. The connection? A family dacha.
> 
> Please, enjoy!

“Would you like to join me at our dacha this weekend?” Vasily asked abruptly over breakfast one morning in Novgorod.

Marya glanced up at him over her cup. They had been working together for a little over a year with professionalism and ease. Vasily maintaining his lauded status and Marya seamlessly translating the team to the West. They had become fast friends, quickly becoming a team in the face of the foreign press. She liked his politeness, his intense blue eyes, and had warmed to him immediately.

Once Marya realized he was making jokes to the press just to watch her smile as she interpreted, that warmth burst to full light.

She liked him. Liked the way he thanked her after every press session. Liked that he invited her to every team dinner and review meeting. Liked that he asked her to lunch when they were last in London, then dinners in Berlin, Mexico City, and Lisbon. She liked him, she really did. She had told her mother about him.

“Isn’t that rather, a bit, erm… intimate, Vasily Abramovich?” Marya said evenly. They were surrounded by international players and Soviet team members, all buzzing with anticipation of the final day’s rounds. The press corp was only a table or two away, well within earshot. It was the last day of the Kaliningrad Invitational; she needed to remain professional for one more day.

Vasily straightened in his chair, a pink flush creeping onto his face. “Yes, I suppose it is. I apologize. You see, I only thought that, perhaps, we could be—.”

“We could be intimate?” Marya raised an eyebrow, keeping her voice low.

“That isn’t what I meant,” Vasily stumbled over his words. He shifted in his seat, casting a quick eye around the room. Handsome, serious, never wavering from his usual expression, deepening flush aside. “We’ve gotten closer, yes, but dinners and competition leave only so much time. I’d like more time, if you’ll allow it.”

“You want more time?” Marya murmured, suddenly dumbfounded. She delicately set down her coffee cup on its saucer, the clattering porcelain giving her shaking hands away. The excitement caught her off guard. “With _me_?”

Vasily regarded her with all the seriousness his competitors would receive later. “I do, Marya Sergeyevna. I… I want to know you better. You’re very important to my reputation, my career. To me.”

“And… your family’s dacha is your solution?” Marya took a sip of her coffee, noting the red lipstick impression left behind. Noting how his eyes never left her face. Noting how her body warmed at the attention. “You understand how scandalous that sounds, don’t you?”

“Oh no, I didn’t —,” Vasily pressed his lips together, keeping himself from rambling. She had only seen him do that a handful of times. “I promise you, I intend to be a perfect gentleman. You will have your own room, I assure you, and I will take care of everything else.”

Marya stared at him, awestruck. He was so reserved, barely cracking a smile in front of most people. The Soviet team know him as easy going but precise, careful not to put a foot wrong but always ready to second a wild idea. For Vasily Abramovich Borgov, this was tender. And it was meant only for her.

It made her heart beat faster in her chest. The idea of spending a whole weekend with him made it beat even faster.

“Ask me again,” Marya said.

Vasily blinked, then swallowed tightly. “Oh, um, yes. Marya Sergeyevna, would you join me at my family’s dacha for the weekend?”

“I’d love to, Vasya.”

“ _Vasya_?” He gulped.

Marya flashed him her winningest smile. “You said I was important to you, didn’t you? It's only right, then.”


	2. Smolensk, 1956

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't help myself. I hope y'all are enjoying this. Beth will be in the next chapter, I promise!

The drive out into the countryside was peaceful, uneventful. Vasily had picked her up from the train station in Smolensk, where his family lived. He had gaped at her even when she admitted to lying to her parents about where she was going. She quickly reassured him, then slid into the passenger’s seat.

Sitting next to him, Marya realize it was the first time she had seen him look so relaxed. He was still neatly dressed in grey slacks and sweater, pale blue and fitted. He drove, relaxed and quiet, adjusting his sunglasses with the shifting clouds outside. Out of his suit, it was the first time Vasily appeared ordinary. It was the first time Marya saw him as a man, not a propaganda poster. It was the first time she could really see his figure.

After an hour or so, Vasily steered the car to the front of a peacock blue house. White painted filigree framed the outsides of the windows; a hand-done pattern ran under the roofline, faded with time. A white fence separated a small garden from the gravel driveway. Flowers grew wild and straggly, like the enchanted gardens of her childhood stories and imagination.

“It’s lovely,” Marya said softly, laying her hand on his arm. She noted the firmness underneath the soft wool. For a moment, she wondered what it would feel like for him to hold her; for those arms to be wrapped securely around her. “Care to show me inside?”

“Marya?” Vasily raised an eyebrow.

“We can’t sleep in the car, Vasya.”

“Oh, of course.” Vasily cleared his throat and stepped out of the car. He stuffed his hands in his pockets as he walked around the front of the car. When she opened the car door, he quickly took it from her and offered a hand to her. “Welcome. Follow me.”

Marya took the hand happily, a rose pink blush spreading across her features. He had said he would be a perfect gentleman, and so far he was delivering. She let him take her bag from her, lead her up the front walk made of creek pebbles. He smiled at her — the softest he ever allowed himself — as he fumbled with the main keys, then the front door. Marya waited, watching his fingers, idly wondering what they might feel like on her. In her hand, at her cheek, in her hair, inside her…

She blinked back to reality and stepped forward, taking the keys from him. “Let me.”

“Thank you, Marya.”

“It's no trouble,” she whispered, turning the key in the lock. “You're welcome.”

She pushed the door open and stepped aside to let Vasily lead the way inside. As she crossed the threshold, letting her eyes wander over the warm wood and evidence of many family summers there, Marya caught herself, suddenly ashamed. Her mind was wandering into scandalous territory; entertaining heavy-handed thoughts about someone who, so far, had taken her out for dinner and kissed her only once. It was clear Vasily had romantic inclinations — she wasn’t blind and he wasn’t as secretive as he might think. She remembered the hotel in Lisbon, a few months after their introduction, where he had walked backwards into a wall after bidding her goodnight.

For someone who lived as the young centerpiece of the Soviet chess team, Vasily Borgov kept the rest of himself remarkably private. Only then did she realize how much of him was still hidden to her; how much of her was still hidden to him. Had he brought other women here or was she the first? Did he have an adventurous past, like she did? Was he getting pressure from his minders to finally settle down at 27? Had he ever kissed someone before?

Even after so much time working side by side, there was still quite a lot left to discover. Perhaps this trip wasn’t a terrible idea after all.

“Marya?”

She inhaled, finally seeing him in front of her. She was still standing just inside the open front door. “Hmm?”

“You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?” Vasily smiled, good-natured and warm. She considered herself forgiven then; that her wandering mind didn’t sow any dislike already. He rested a hand on her shoulder, then leaned forward to kiss her temple.

“Sorry,” she murmured, a flush rising to her cheeks.

She couldn’t help but feel pinned down underneath his stormy blue eyes. She had seen their intensity directed at many a competitor over the white and black of a chess board. She had seen them glassy and a little off-center after post tournament celebrations, taking too many drinks from Luchenko’s vodka bottle. She hadn’t seen them like this before — soft, cheerful, focused. Focused entirely on her. A shiver ran down her back, something fuzzy and honey-warm left in its wake.

“That’s alright. I don’t mind repeating it,” Vasily said and steered her with a gentle hand deeper into the home.

Somewhere the door shut behind them. Somewhere between the small kitchen and the short hallway to the bedrooms, Marya leaned into Vasily’s side. Hanging on his every word. Hanging on his arm as he set her bag down on what was to be her bed. Hanging on the growing hope that there could be something more between them.

“And there’s a porch behind the house, where you can see the stream, which you can see from here,” Vasily said, ending with them in front of a small kitchen window. “The kitchen. Which you will not step foot in for the next two days.”

Marya giggled. “My mother taught me how to cook. I could help?”

“No, no cooking. No helping.”

“I do dishes if asked nicely.”

“No dishes. No cooking,” Vasily said, squeezing her shoulders and pressing a kiss to her cheek. “I promised you I would take care of everything. I keep my promises.”

“You do, do you?” Marya hummed, pressing back against his chest. She took his hands from her shoulders and wrapped them around her waist. Just to feel his warmth, she told herself. Just to feel his solid frame, she told herself. Just to flirt, only a little, like she did in university.

“Always.” Vasily stiffened at the new contact, then eased into it. He rests his chin on her shoulder, watching the stream glitter in the late afternoon sun. After a few minutes of them standing just like that, Marya feels him shift in place; feels a hand lift to sweep aside her hair; feels him press a hesitant kiss to the pulse point on her neck. He pulled away, breath caught in the air. “Have I overstepped?”

Marya turned to look at him better. “Have you?”

“That was a question for you, Marya.”

“And I’m asking it back to you. I don’t think you overstepped, Vasya, but I have the suspicion you believe you have.” She let out an easy breath, reaching up to run light fingers over his jaw and neck. “Do you think you have?”

All at once, Vasily seemed to retract. His touch lightened on her waist. He didn’t press as surely to her. Gently, he turned her around, the seriousness back in his face. The faintest glimmer of worry underneath it all. “May I confess something?”

“You have a secret wife elsewhere?” Marya whispered with a half-smile, trying to bring some of the humor back to him. It only half-worked, a there-and-gone smile gracing his lips. Then the seriousness returned. Letting out a slow breath, Marya rose onto her toes, cupping his cheeks and kissing the end of his nose. “I’ll take that as a no… I’m listening, Vasya.”

“I like you calling me that…” His eyes flutter shut and he tilts his head down. “Masha, I… I’ve never been with someone. I’ve not felt so close to someone before, not like you.”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean, like this.” He waves a hand between them. “I want to touch you, kiss you, do erm…things with you.”

“You haven’t before? With anyone?”

He shakes his head. “I’ve never wanted to. They didn’t make me feel the way you do, Mashunya.”

Marya blinked, her lips parting in awe. “ _Mashunya_?”

“Was that too far?”

“No,” she shook her head, then kissed him. Firm, meaningful, but with promise. “No, no. It wasn’t. I… I might have enough experience for the both of us. Does that… does that bother you?”

“Bother me?” Vasily huffed a laugh. He followed her as she stepped back, leaning against the cabinets and holding him closer. He rested his forehead against hers. “Thank Christ one of us does.”

“Would it bother you to know… to know it wasn’t just _men_?” Marya whispered.

“Not just… Oh…” Vasily repeats, letting the words trail off. He presses another kiss to her lips. “Nothing about you bothers me, Mashunya.” He kisses across her cheek, pausing at her ear, then down the smooth column of her neck. Slow, deliberate, hesitant in some moments, confident in others. “I don’t think anything ever will.”


	3. Seville, 1969

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story returns and so does Beth!
> 
> Enjoy!

_Dinner tonight, 8pm. Across the street._

The note was written on hotel stationary in neat black ink, then slipped under the door. Nondescript, virtually unplaceable should it have ended up in the possession of her handler. It didn’t take long for Beth to recognize the handwriting as Vasily Borgov’s — rigid but graceful, the script letters running closer to their Cyrillic counterparts than the English standard. ****

It had been a long day of competition. She had beaten Samisch first thing that morning, floated around Taimanov’s, Petrosian’s, and Penrose’s matches through lunch, then played an excruciating three-hour match against Girev, now seventeen and a head taller than her. She had managed to edge out a victory and was now rewarding herself with a long soak in a warm bath.

She lounged over the side, reading the short note. It had only been a few months since Moscow, and she had been longing for it ever since. She had spent four nights with the Borgovs. Even now, she could close her eyes and feel Marya nipping at her jaw, her manicured hands on her breasts; could feel Vasily’s fingers at her hips, tongue between her thighs, his voice patiently directing her.

It had challenged her.

It had expanded her palette.

It had left Beth wanting more. ****

She sighed and dropped the note on the floor. She sank lower in the steaming water, giving in to her fantasy. The Borgovs were here, in Spain. She had watched Vasily defeat Geller in fifteen moves, his moves decisive and confident. She had snuck glances over to Marya, standing nearby in a trim suit of sky blue linen; had seen her pull the golden lipstick tube Beth had gifted her from a pocket and touch up her pout. Both had her imagining things — delightfully dirty things — and sweating delicately under her patterned blouse.

She had a ribbon-tied bundle of Vasily’s letters in her suitcase, evidence of her loneliness. She had bought another tube of the Rubenstein lipstick, in the same shade as Marya.

Jolene had said it was unhealthy.

Beth might have agreed, had she had anyone else in her sights.

She didn’t and preferred not to.

Neither had paid any attention to her in the last three days. They were being shadowed heavily by two agents Beth didn’t recognize. Vasily was a stone, but Marya and their son looked fairly miserable. There had been dinners and dancing throughout Seville, hosted by the competition organizers, but the couple hadn’t been seen at any of them.

Beth might have been heartbroken, might have second-guessed everything were it not for Luchenko. The old man had approached her one evening, to congratulate her on that day’s victories, as kindly as he had always been to her. When she had asked after Vasya, he had sobered and nodded.

 _His loss in Amsterdam has been the source of some… dissatisfaction with the State_ , was his brief answer. Nearly wordy for political intrigue. Beth spent the rest of the evening reviewing matches with him over a lemonade, glad she had not been forgotten.

And now, this letter.

They hadn’t forgotten her.

Rising from the water, Beth shook off the phantom hands. Nothing would compare to the real thing. All signs seemed to say she would be back between them soon. She shivered at the thought. She wrapped herself in a bathrobe and traipsed out into her hotel room. Looking at the outfit she had laid out on the bed, Beth felt the urge to scrap it. It was her most conservative ensemble to date — a simple black shift dress and practical flats.

Marya would likely wear something dazzling. It would be the first night the older woman had been released from her hotel room. She was bound to make a scene. She had once told Beth she had a silly dream of impressing the Spanish and the Italians. If there was any moment to do just that, this contest would have been just the one.

Beth shook her head and discarded the planned dress. She had once been spontaneous and unpredictable. There was no reason she couldn’t tonight.

~*~*~*~

“Evening,” Beth greeted in a soft voice, sweeping a strand of red hair away from her face. “May I join you?”

Marya Borgova turned, a pretty cocktail glass held in her thin fingers. She was dressed in rose pink, the dress tailored to her petite figure. Her dark eyes widened in surprise, her red lips parting slightly. “Elizabeth. How are you?”

“I’m well. Better today.” Beth slid up to the bar, calmly ordering something like an orange soda. As the bartender turned, Beth leaned closer to the older woman. “I take it you weren’t aware of my invitation.”

“Invitation?” Marya tilted her head.

“This,” Beth replied, producing the folded piece of hotel stationary. She laid it out on the bar, hoping Marya would over look the water spots. “I thought it was Vasya’s handwriting. Was I mistaken?”

Marya lifted the note, her dark eyes sliding over the six words twice. A faint, wry smile pulled at her lips. She set the paper down, then took a sip of her drink. “That man…”

Beth tilted her head. “Marya?”

“Vasily will be joining in a little bit. The team is reviewing a strategy, but you didn’t hear that from me,” Marya replied briskly, brightly. She patted the stool next to her. “Sit with me, Elizabeth. We have much to catch up on. You’re playing well this week.”

“Oh, thank you,” Beth said, hopping up on the seat.

“Will you be continuing with the tour after this?”

“I plan to. Will you both?”

Marya nodded. “We plan to as well.”

“I hope I can stay in it through Moscow. I’d love to see the city in summer.” She took a long drink and crossed her legs high in the thigh. She was dressed in a white summer dress, flowing and simple with a plunging neckline. Watching Marya’s eyes draw down her chest then back up, she quietly congratulated herself on the change of plans. She turned sideways on the stool, leaning casually on the back. “Vasya is doing well. His match with Geller might be a new record.”

Marya giggled and shook her head. “Not for him, it isn’t. He beat someone in Mexico City in 4 moves in 1955. It was the first tournament I worked with him.”

“Did it make you weak in the knees?” Beth asked, flashing a conspirator’s smile.

“You have no idea,” Marya sighed wistfully. She cast a glance to a dark corner of the restaurant’s bar, then leaned forward. She set a hand on Beth’s exposed knee. “I apologize for our absence. We’ve missed you greatly.”

Beth shook her head. She covered Marya’s hand with her own. “There’s no need. I heard about Amsterdam.”

Marya’s expression tightened for a moment, there and gone. “He needs to medal or there will be consequences.”

Beth raised an eyebrow.

“Retirement.” Marya pursed her lips. “It’s unfair, but it’s happened.”

“He’s won all his matches so far, and I’ve seen the rest of his line up. He’ll be fine, I’m sure of it,” Beth consoled lightly. She took another drink, watching Marya lean away and fan herself with her hand. “Are they watching you?”

“Aren’t they always?”

“Isn’t there a place on earth where they wouldn’t?”

Marya shrugged. “Our home… beyond that, very few places.” Her dark eyes went distant for a few long moments. When they blinked back to focus, they were directed over Beth’s shoulder. She raised a hand, then smiled at Beth. “Perhaps we will get the time to truly talk this evening. He’s missed your letters.”

“And I’ve missed his,” Beth admitted with a shy smile. She twirled her foot in the air. “I’ve missed other things too…”

Marya slid from her chair, the fabric of her dress floating around her legs like spun sugar. She waited for Beth to follow suit. “Patience, Liza. I’ll have my tongue on you soon enough.”

Beth felt her cheeks light up hot pink and thanked the universe for dark bars and summer heat. “ _Oh_ …”

“Have I overstepped?”

“Never, Marya. Neither of you could... I want that more than you know." Beth steadied herself and let Marya take her hand, leading her to a table. It took everything in her not to drape herself on Marya; took everything not to fly to into Vasily’s arms.

 _Patience, Liza_ echoed in her ears the rest of the night. As they talked and ate. As Vasily and Beth talked through the Penrose game. As Marya asked after Kentucky and her garden. It echoed and echoed, keeping her in her seat, keeping her politely chatting while a bonfire burned in her stomach. She nearly missed the most important question anyone asked all night.

Vasily leaned across the table, resting his fingers near hers. “Are you going all the way to Moscow, Liza?”

“Here’s hoping,” Beth grinned.

“Then…” His eyes flickered to Marya, then back to Beth. “Liza, would you like to join us at our _dacha_? After the tour concludes?”

Beth cast a glance from one spouse to the other, marveling at their understanding of one another. The question came out of nowhere to an outsider, but between Vasily and Marya it was clear as day, obvious even. She smiled brilliantly at the older man, wanting so much to pull those hands to her legs.

 _Patience, Liza_.

_Do you need praise, Elizabeth?_

“I’d love to, Vasya.”


End file.
